


Bedtime Story

by casstayinmyass



Category: Django Unchained (2012)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Doggy Style, Established Relationship, F/M, Face-Sitting, Fantasizing, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Missionary Position, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Riding, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Sex, erotic novels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15292023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: Your husband finds you reading a rather racy novel in bed.





	Bedtime Story

“Tired?” Your husband, King Schultz, asks you, noticing you yawning. The two bedroom cottage by the lake you lived in was quiet at this time of night, so you could hear the loons outside. It was peaceful normally, but tonight you were looking for a little fun.

“Mm,” you feign, “I might just settle in with a book and drift off.”

“Good idea, leibchen. I’ll just be at my desk, categorizing my bounties.” He clenched his fist. “Business is booming in the north!”

You grin to yourself as you hop into bed, grabbing the novel from your bedside table. It’s Charlotte Temple, by Susannah Rowson, a guilty pleasure novel. It had all sorts of naughty ideas in it; the last chapter had the main character’s suiter between her legs, using his tongue! Every time you read, you imagine yourself and King in these situations, these positions. It never failed to excite you.

Cracking the book open, you find your place.

 _“Oh, surely sir! We cannot do that with my father just in the next room! He will hear us!”_ Miss Charlotte Temple whispered to her handsome older lover in the novel, and you read on to see what he had to say.

“ _Not if we keep quiet,”_  Mister Montraville whispered back, dragging her in for a dizzying kiss. His hands reached under her dress, and they kept kissing as Montraville slipped his fingers into Charlotte, muffling her cries with his other hand.

You get about 20 pages in, but just as they’re really beginning to go at it, King pushes back his chair.

“That’s it for tonight, no more corpses to sort!” He waves his hands wildly, running them through his hair and down to curl his moustache. You look up, setting your book down, and swallow. In your already aroused state, it’s not cooling you down any to see your husband standing there with his shirt unbuttoned and his spectacles on.

“What is it?” he smirks, that mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “That look always means trouble.” You exhale.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

He nods, and takes the spectacles off, beginning to undress. He unbuttons his shirt, takes off his boots, and gets into bed.

“Well. I think Django and Broomhilda are adjusting nicely,” he mentions, stripping the shirt off to replace it with an undershirt.

You bite your lips, pressing the heel of your hand down against yourself as you catch a glimpse of your husband’s chest, the silvery wisps of hair there making your head spin. A bucket of ice water would do you nicely right about now.

“Yes,” you manage, “They are.”

Django and Broomhilda had followed you to the northern colony of Massachusetts after narrowly escaping Candyland, and you and King had gotten married, purchasing this place with rich bounty money. Nowadays, Django and King continue their business here.

He reaches over to stroke your chin with a grin. “You astonish me with your beauty. Ah, I find myself wondering every day how I came to find a gorgeous young lady like you willing to settle for a plucked chicken like me.”

Your eyelids flutter from his touch. “You sell yourself short. I only ever had eyes for you.” You swallow, clutching at the sheets as you imagine your fingernails digging into the mattress. This book really set you on fire.

“Is something the matter?” King’s smile fades into worry, “You look flushed. Although I must say, you look lovely with a little color to your cheeks, I’m obligated as your doting husband to check you for a fever.”

“I’m fine,” you assure, “Really.”

He nods again. “Oh, very well. You’re just as stubborn as I am.” King lights his bedside lamp. He then starts to look over a few pages of his own book, before his curious eyes fall on yours.

“What are you reading, my love?” he inquires. You pause, heart beating a little quicker.

“Oh. Not bad, but nothing good. A dull book I found in town, at the library.”

He shrugs, and goes back to his own book. As you read on, you feel yourself become so wet you can barely stand not taking care of yourself. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if you…

Your eyes flutter shut, and you supress a moan as you start to discreetly rub yourself under the sheets, imagining King doing all the things to you in this book.  _Oh. Oh, so close, almost there–_

“(y/n), by your need to take up the act of self pleasuring, I can tell that the book is, in fact, better than not bad.” He chuckles, pouting a little. “Am I not satisfying my darling wife?” You’re quick to snatch your hand back up.

“Of course you are! I was just…”  _Getting ideas,_  you dare not reveal. He glances over your shoulder, and as he reads, his eyes widen.

“Meinn Gott…” He begins to read. “Miss Charlotte felt Mister Montraville’s hard–” he chokes a little, “–member inside her, in and out and in until she wanted to scream his name, but alas, her  _father_  was adjacent to them, and could be listening.” His mouth hangs slightly ajar, spectacles falling down his nose. “You read this?”

“Sometimes,” you shrug.

“They’re so… explicit!” he blurts, ruffled by the wording. “Do they…” He lowers his voice to a hiss, as if someone’s listening. “Do they arouse you?”

“What do you think?” you giggle, taking his hand under the sheets and letting him have s feel. His lips part as he feels your wetness, and he exhales shakily. He takes his spectacles off, rubbing over his eyes and running his hand through his hair again in a ruffle. You roll your eyes playfully. “They’re only stories,” you point out. He finally turns to you, and gives you a look.

“They don’t have to be.”

You gasp a little, and he cups your face, bringing you in for a soft kiss. Too desperate to go through any foreplay King might have in mind, you push your lips harder against him, and roll over on top of him. You kiss the bounty hunter, again and again until your lips are swollen and King is painfully hard.

“Lift up your shirt, liebchen,” he whispers, his voice rough with lust, “And get on all fours.” As you do as he says, he smooths a hand up your back. “That’s it,” he says.

“Fuck me,” you mumble into the pillow.

“What was that?” King asks, “Little girls must use their words if they would like something.”

“Oh, fuck me daddy,” you raise your voice, he chuckles.

“Very well. As you wish Fraulein.”

You feel the head of his cock between your folds and soon, realizing you’re past the point of teasing, he slams in, ripping a groan from you. He keeps fucking you like this, until you moan that you’re going to come.

A moment later, he pulls out and flips you over gently. He then positions himself between your legs and brings his mouth to you, suckling especially around your clit. “King,” you mewl.

“Yes. Get louder for me,” he encourages, and goes back to fucking you with his tongue. He soon encourages you to sit on his face, and you do, feeling him lick you perfectly while his beard scratches your thighs. He circles your clit with the the tip of his tongue as he jerks himself off, and you fall forward.

“King… oh, oh, I’m coming, oh fuck, right there don'tstopdon'tstop–”

He holds you tight as you ride his face and doesn’t stop his tongue until you’re finished.

Then you take over for him on his cock, and finish him off as he comes with a desperate cry of your name.

You snuggle up under the sheets beneath King’s arm, and he takes his nearby handkerchief off the bedside table to clean off his mustache.

“Well,” you breathe, resting your head on his chest, “You were ready tonight.”

“You’d be surprised,” he mumbles in slight offense, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’m in the mood far more often than you assume.” He then kisses your lips, and places his book on the bedside table, from where it had fallen from the bed. “So? Verdict? Was I better than your,” he puffs out his chest in a macho manner, lowering his voice comically, “ _Mister Montraville_ in your book?”

You smile, tucking the book away. “Montraville who?”


End file.
